


Carpe Diem

by flamewarrior



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Community: miettes_desmots, M/M, Minor Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-10-27
Updated: 2005-10-27
Packaged: 2017-10-05 10:50:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/40982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flamewarrior/pseuds/flamewarrior
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the end of the war, some people need a bit of help to recover and seize the day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Carpe Diem

**Author's Note:**

  * For [moonysshadow](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=moonysshadow).



Harry was feeling depressed. This was not a surprise. After all that had happened in the last two years, hell, after what had happened since he was eleven, it would have been surprising if he wasn't. Harry feeling depressed was perfectly normal. What wasn't normal was that it was so bad today he actually noticed it, a physical presence like a weight on his neck and limbs, dragging him down, so heavy that he almost couldn't lift his head.

He'd thought he'd be glad to get back to school, back to a kind of normality. He knew he should care about getting his NEWTs. But it was all too surreal, going to lessons when he'd been to war with many of his classmates, fought alongside some of them, protected others, killed some of their parents. Maybe he'd fought against some them too, who knew?

Harry sighed and pushed the scrambled eggs around his plate a bit more. He wished he could just sit there all day, not going to lessons or eating or playing Quidditch or having to talk to anyone, just pushing cold scrambled eggs around his plate. Nothing else was tolerable, nothing else allowed him to enter that blank state where he could stop thinking, stop feeling, just for this moment here. It was the closest he could get to nothingness while still breathing.

His relative state of grace was short-lived. The bell rang for lessons and his plate and glass and cutlery disappeared. Harry wondered for a moment what would happen if he just carried on sitting there, tracing the worn wood of the long table with his fingers. His housemates had learnt to leave him well enough alone; perhaps the teachers would too?

He knew it was a vain hope. Sighing, he picked up his bag and stood, dragging his feet behind him as he headed for the doors.

============================

Draco was feeling depressed. This was a surprise. It didn't happen to him; depression was for losers like Potter (who was, Draco noticed, sitting slumped over the table where his breakfast had been a moment before). Malfoys did not get depressed, particularly not when they had just succeeded in pulling off the fashion coup of the century.

Except that no-one had noticed. Bastards. He had gone into London, into _Muggle_ London, to get his lip pierced, risking goodness knew what disease and infection (and that was before he'd got anywhere near a needle - thank goodness he'd investigated cleansing and healing charms thoroughly for that project at the beginning of the year), and not even his Slytherin stalwarts had congratulated him on stealing a march on the 'vogue du jour'.

In fact, he'd been getting some decidedly odd looks from his fellow Slytherins all morning. Miserable sods, the lot of them, slinking around like they owed the world a favour, all because their parents made some lousy decisions. He was doing his bit to bring the world back to normal after that abysmal period. Did he get any thanks? No, of course not.

He looked over at Potter again, shaggy head bowed down, all those lovely, rippling muscles limp with dejection. Perhaps 'depressed' was a bit of a strong word for what Draco himself was feeling. Potter looked barely animate. Shouldn't he be a bit livelier now that he'd offed old Voldie? Draco vaguely remembered something about the Weaselette getting caught in the crossfire in the final battle. Surely that wasn't what Potter was so down in the dumps about. Draco felt a twinge of something unfamiliar. Not sympathy, surely? and not jealousy, absolutely not. No, definitely indigestion.

Sighing, he stood (with grace and poise, as always) and made for the doors, Levitating his bag before him.

============================

"Ah, come on, Harry, it'll be great!"

Seamus was beaming all over his face, a wicked glint in his eye. Gatecrashing Slytherin parties wasn't at the top of Harry's list of Ways To Have A Good Time. But then, that particular list had been singularly empty for several years now. Harry sighed.

He nodded at last, feeling resigned. It might take his mind off things he supposed. At least he might get in some time being happily ignored while in the Slytherin common room.

"Excellent! You know I've got some cider from back home to take - kind of a peace offering. Well, maybe." That glint in his eyes got brighter. "Rumour has it Old Mahoney makes it with apples from the Land of Youth."

"Oh, really. That's nice." Harry wasn't really paying attention.

Seamus looked at him rather oddly.

"Nice wasn't what I was thinking, exactly. But it should definitely be... interesting." Seamus chuckled to himself, and Harry wondered if the world had gone mad while he wasn't looking.

============================

Draco looked round at his housemates in despair. It was a party for goodness sake and here they all were sitting round looking like a year full of wet weekends, staring morosely into their drinks. He rolled his eyes to himself. Goodness knew he'd done his best, organising this party. Perhaps he should have booked some entertainment.

He looked up at the noise of banging from the portrait hole. Nott got up to open the door and stood on the threshold talking for quite some time before he eventually let the portrait swing open to admit four crates of bottles, Seamus Finnigan and Harry bloody Potter. What in hell's name were they doing here?

He was about to get up and tell them to get lost, but then he stopped and thought a moment. Maybe this was just what the party needed, a bit of tension to lift the Slytherins out of their torpor. Perhaps the entertainment had arrived, after all.

He stood up languidly and walked towards the two Gryffindors.

"Well, well, well," he said, his voice ringing through the room, dripping with sarcasm, "the great Potter finally walks among us! So kind of you to deign to grace us with your ever-scintillating presence."

Potter looked up.

"Give it a break, Malf..."

Potter had gone silent and was staring at his chin. Draco started to feel somewhat uncomfortable.

"What the fuck is that? You got a lip piercing? _Draco Malfoy_ got a lip piercing?"

Draco's mood suddenly improved and he cheered inwardly. Someone noticed! Someone noticed! He was a fashion god. Admittedly the someone who noticed had been Potter, who wasn't exactly well-known for his sartorial elegance, but even he had improved since he'd killed the Mouldy One. Those jeans and that T-shirt actually fit him. Showed him off rather well in fact. Perhaps he'd hired an image consultant.

He drew himself back from his musings to survey the aghast young man before him.

"Yes, Potter. Full marks for observation. Now, what's that you've got there, Finnigan?"

============================

Seamus was very glad he'd brought Old Mahoney's cider with him. The party had seemed pretty dead when he'd arrived, but now? He grinned to himself at the couples and triples and larger groups playing tongue hockey and other more advanced games around the room, some with rather fewer items of clothing on their person than when he'd walked in. Much more appropriate for a bunch of nineteen year olds.

Millicent Bulstrode was a notable exception. She was sitting in an armchair by the fire, surveying the room with a look Seamus had a suspicion was rather like his own - amused and voyeuristic. He stood and strolled over to her.

"Hullo, Ms Bulstrode."

She looked up at him as he sat on the arm of the chair, appraising him in one quick sweep of her gaze.

"That was a very naughty thing you did, Seamus."

She didn't sound in the least bit disapproving.

"Well, you know, thought I'd bring a little bit of pleasure from the Land of Youth to brighten the dinge and damp of the dungeons. I thought Slytherin House could do with a bit of loosening up. I notice you've not been drinking any." He motioned his hand towards her glass, which held a virulently green liquid.

She arched her right eyebrow. Seamus thought she must have practised in front of a mirror for hours to make it look so effortless.

"Oh, no. I don't know much about Irish magic, but I have heard of the Land of Youth. I don't want my inhibitions and sexual morals taken away from me without my say so, thank you very much." She shuddered, the amused look briefly dropping from her face completely. Her voice became quieter, bitter. "I've seen enough of that kind of thing."

Seamus, too, became serious.

"Ah. I hadn't thought about it quite like that. I guess it'd be a bit different if..."

The two were quiet for a moment.

"You know, Millicent, I think your friends here are taking this end of the war business a bit too hard. A lot of your parents may have been on the losing side, but that doesn't mean..."

Millicent's head snapped up, her eyes like black flint, cutting him off.

"And what would you know about that, Finnigan?"

Seamus looked straight at her for several seconds. Neither of them blinked.

"I know a fair bit about being part of a family that was on the wrong side in a just war." Millicent's eyebrow had risen again, but she didn't say anything. Seamus looked beyond her face at the fire dancing in the hearth.

"Don't let the name fool you, Millicent. My Great-grandpa was Anglo-Irish, supported the English government to the hilt. Got involved in the magical side of the war of independence trying to get the Sidhe to side against the Republicans.

"That was always gonna be a hiding to nowhere. The Sidhe sent him mad. He went round the twist - in a very endearing way, to be sure, but his son, my Grandda, was always ashamed of him. When he started learning history in school, he was ashamed of him for fighting on the English side of the war, as well.

"When he was old enough, he changed his name to O'Leary and became a Catholic - he told me once there was more magic in one Roman Catholic Mass than in the whole Irish Ministry of Magic. But he was never, ever happy. He always felt like he had to apologise for existing, behaved like he owed the world a living. It drove Ma round the twist."

He turned his eyes back to Millicent's face.

"I hate to see so many of you Slytherins walking around with your heads down like you owe the world an apology for who your parents are. Even if you don't want to be around Muggles and you don't think much of Muggleborns, doesn't mean you've got anything to be ashamed of. There's a difference between believing something pig-headed and killing and torturing people because of it."

Seamus looked at Millicent in silence. Millicent looked back.

Eventually, she said, "Well, that was quite a little speech." That appraising look was back again. "Thank you."

Seamus looked at his hands. He felt a bit embarrassed now he'd said all that. "Any time."

He was rather surprised to see another hand join his and give them a light squeeze. He looked up at Millicent again.

"Really, Seamus. Thank you. It means a lot. It doesn't change anything, but it's nice to know someone on your side understands a little." She dropped her hand back into her lap and broke eye contact, glancing round the room. Her eyes fixed in one spot, widening, and one corner of her mouth raised up. Seamus looked to see what had caused her change of expression.

"Wha... bl... wh... ng... bu..."

Seamus was spluttering rather ineffectually.

"Who would have thought it?" Millicent's voice was smooth and rather wicked-sounding. "This should be _very_ interesting."

In a corner of the dungeon common room, Seamus saw Draco Malfoy and Harry Potter slumped against a wall, two empty bottles of Old Mahoney's between them, snogging each other's faces off.

============================

Malfoy was smiling at him in that lazy, self-satisfied way of his. Harry couldn't quite remember how he'd come to be having a conversation with the rancid git, but actually, he was finding it quite enjoyable. Amusing, at least. Malfoy was about to spout some astoundingly self-absorbed rubbish again.

"Well, I am a fashion god. Not to mention a sex god, of course."

Malfoy raised his eyebrow and smoothed his hand down his chest and side, over his silver shirt, to his hip. Harry snorted and gaped in amazement at Malfoy's utter arrogance.

"Oh, yes, utterly godlike, a veritable Zeus. Let me guess, you dress in hand-made robes and go around seducing unsuspecting maidens and shepherd boys."

Harry took a swig from his cider bottle. Malfoy was gazing over at him through half-lidded eyes. He lowered his voice.

"I'd much rather be seducing the Boy Who Lived."

Harry nearly lost his mouthful of drink. As it was, most of it went up his nose and the rest tried to take the place of air in his lungs. It took a good minute of coughing and spluttering and Malfoy walloping him on the back before he could breathe or speak properly again.

When he had the ability back, he found he was speechless. Malfoy was smirking.

"That surprised you, didn't it?"

Harry nodded mutely. Malfoy's hand was still on his back, and it was making its way up to his neck. It was really rather pleasant. Tingly feelings were spreading out from Malfoy's hand, making all his hairs stand on end. He closed his eyes.

"I think you should have another drink, Potter. Calm you down after the shock."

Harry nodded again, and gulped down two mouthfuls of cider. He felt a hand take the empty bottle from his fingers. The hand on his neck stopped making little circles and took a firmer hold. Harry felt breath on his face, and opened his eyes just in time to see Malfoy closing the final distance between their mouths.

Harry stood stock still for a moment as his mind tried to process what was happening. Draco Malfoy had his mouth on his. Draco Malfoy's lips were moving over his own. Draco Malfoy's tongue was lapping at the corner of his mouth. It was all rather nice: the sharpness of the cider on Malfoy's breath, the dryness of his lips, the wet, smooth slide of his tongue, the slight roughness of his chin, the ball of his lip ring pressing into Harry's skin.

Harry brought his arms up around Malfoy and opened his mouth. He didn't make a decision exactly, he just did it. Malfoy seemed to approve. He felt Malfoy's hand rest on his left buttock as his tongue started getting to work inside Harry's mouth. The tingly feelings were getting beyond a joke, and when Malfoy squeezed his arse, Harry toppled against the wall, taking the other boy with him.

Malfoy didn't miss a beat, just rolled them round so that Harry's back was pressed up against the wall and his front was pressed up against Malfoy. A shiver went through him. Malfoy never stopped kissing him, becoming more insistent, tongue far inside his mouth. Harry had to breathe through his nose.

Malfoy's left hand had let go of his neck and was slipping down the front of Harry's jeans. His right hand was squeezing Harry's arse roughly. Harry moaned into Malfoy's mouth and his hips bucked upwards. He didn't think Malfoy's hand was anywhere near far enough into his jeans, so he brought his own hands between their two bodies and undid the flies. Malfoy made an appreciative noise as his hand wrapped around Harry's half-erect cock. Harry squealed around Malfoy's tongue and he spared a thought to be grateful he hadn't bothered wearing any pants.

Harry put both his hands on the blond's arse and pulled him in closer, just as Malfoy Apparated them both to somewhere rather more comfortable.

============================

Draco woke with a headache the size and approximate ferocity of a roc and a strange weight pressing down on his upper back. He tried to move his head and open his eyes to see what the weight was, but the wave of nausea that crashed over him convinced him he didn't need to know just yet.

Hangover Cure, that was what he needed. He prayed fervently that Theo hadn't been in and nicked his personal supply again. He reached over to his bedside table and fumbled with the drawer. He had a moment of panic as his hand felt around inside, then relief washed over him as his fingers made contact with cool glass.

He pulled the bottle carefully towards himself, resting it upright against his pillow while he unstoppered it one-handed and took a long gulp. Ah. Oh. Aaaaaaah. Draco sighed. That was better. Much better. Carefully, he put the stopper back and returned the bottle to the drawer. Now, what was that weight on his back?

He turned his head to the right and saw a shoulder and some messy black hair. He started to grin. So, he'd scored last night. Excellent. He wondered who it was. From the curve of the shoulder and the weight of the arm, he'd guess his conquest was male. Not Blaise or Theo, that was certain: too pale for Blaise, too dark for Theo. And it most certainly wasn't the Weasel.

A new playmate then. Ooh, goody. He was going to have to do his best to remember some of last night, because Draco did so like having new lovers. He felt it was rather like exploring a great big brand new toy box, only more energetic and with lots of orgasms involved.

Whoever this mystery male was, the weight of his arm over Draco's back was starting to annoy him, but he didn't want to wake him quite yet. Instead, he threw his mind back to what he could remember of the previous night, and let him continue lying oblivous beside him.

Images and sensations came back to him like images from a scrapbook. Sloppy kisses; fingertips digging into his buttocks; a pink, wet mouth open and gasping; his arse being pounded so hard his head hit against the headboard; a hot, wet mouth around his cock; green eyes looking up at him through messy black hair.

Oh, Nimue.

Messy black hair. Green eyes.

Draco felt his heart skip a beat.

Oh gods, no.

He couldn't have. No, of course not. It was impossible. He _couldn't_ have.

Could he?

He blushed and chewed the inside of his lip. The thought of having bedded Harry Potter made Draco want to wet himself with excitement. He had to remember more of last night. He returned to the last scrap of memory: Potter (if it really had been Potter; please, dear gods, let it have been Potter) giving him head. He concentrated hard on the remembered sensations and images. He remembered the swipe of tongue from the top of his balls to the tip of his cock, the swirl of tongue around the head, dipping into the slit, fingertips pulling down his foreskin and that tongue tip swirling around the base of the head. Oh, Merlin, what a tease.

He remembered teeth grazing over the head, looking down to see a grin and a wicked look which turned him on so badly he wanted to grab that hair and fuck that mouth until they were both raw; he remembered lids closing over green eyes suddenly hazed with want and the wet heat of a pink mouth engulfing him and slowly, painfully slowly, sliding down, taking him in, taking him _all_ in. Oh God, oh God.

Draco was panting. He shivered violently with remembered pleasure and the movement was enough to wake his bed partner. The young man rolled his shoulders and gradually turned his head so they were facing each other. He blinked his eyes as though they'd been stuck together, then opened them completely and stared. For a moment, it seemed that they were both completely stunned. Finally, Draco found his voice.

"Oh my God, it is you." His voice was hushed with awe.

"Malfoy?" Potter's eyes were taking in Draco's face, the bed and the fact that they were in it together. Naked. Touching. Draco felt Potter withdraw his arm from his back and watched as he pulled it awkwardly against his chest under the covers. His eyes returned to Potter's face. At the sight of those eyes, another shiver went through him, a surge of lust.

Which was rather spoiled by the look on Potter's face.

"Well, I'm hardly _that_ disgusting, Potter." Draco knew he was being snappish, but he couldn't help it. The look Potter was giving him was one of utter horror.

"What?" Draco watched Potter bring his face under control. "Oh, sorry, I'm just.." He blushed and looked down at the apparently fascinating bedsheet. "Did we, um. I mean, er. Did we, you know, um."

Potter's aborted sentences faded into silence, and his eyes were now flicking up to Draco's, then back down, then up again. Draco's annoyance vanished in an instant. Really, it was too adorable. The hero of the Wizarding world, the young man who had rid the Earth of the worst disaster of a fuckwit would-be dictator ever to be visited upon it, who had faced down evil and death in a blaze of glory, was turning deep fuschia over a drunken fuck at a party.

Draco lowered his eyelids, brought his mouth close to Potter's ear and made sure his voice was at its silkiest and most seductive.

"Yes, Potter. We sucked each other, we fucked each other, we buggered each others arses off."

Draco didn't know if all of that was strictly true, but it felt very, very good to say it. He leaned back again, watching Potter's face for his reaction. He hadn't thought it possible, but Potter had actually turned an even deeper shade of pink. He grinned and decided to put the boy out of his misery, speaking in his everyday voice again.

"Carpe diem, Potter. The war's over, you're _alive_, so live! Don't be embarrassed for goodness sake. Sex is a lot more fun than moping and pushing food around your plate, wouldn't you say?" He smirked. "I certainly enjoyed myself. Who'd have thought you'd give such amazing head?"

Draco was surprised to see that Potter, rather than going any pinker or trying to bury himself under the covers, had sat up at his last comment. A smirk had slid onto his face and he was looking down at Draco rather smugly.

"Oh, I've been told that before."

Now it was Draco's turn to sit up. He was gaping. The part of his mind that was still functioning wondered if Potter's face was about to crack in two, his grin was so wide.

"You thought I was all virginal and pure? That's priceless, Malfoy, really."

For a moment, Draco was pole-axed. Then he started to chuckle, then to laugh out loud.

"Well, well, well, you learn something new every day."

Draco just managed to get the sentence out before collapsing into helpless amused gurgles. Potter joined in and soon they were having to hold each other up, they were laughing so hard. Eventually, they quietened down and Draco slumped down on the bed, resting on his left elbow. Potter was still shaking slightly, back against the headboard. He turned to Draco, wiping tears of mirth from his eyes. Draco was silent as Potter regarded him for a moment, a genuine smile on his face.

"Hey, Malfoy, want to seize the day again?"

Draco just grinned and pulled back the covers, running his hand up Potter's thighs, lingering briefly over his balls before taking hold of his rather impressive morning erection. Potter's eyes went round as he took in a sharp lung-full of air.

"I'll take that as a yes, then." Potter's voice was delightfully breathy and had a slightly strangled edge to it.

Draco sighed in contentment as he wrapped his mouth around Potter's beautiful cock. What an excellent day it was to be alive; and such a wonderful lot of seizing to be done.

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. This story is set in an AU seventh year at Hogwarts, two years after the war has ended. In this story, Hogwarts was closed after the events of HBP (which may or may not have happened in this universe). The seventh year students are therefore all 19 or 20 years old.
> 
> 2\. The Land of Youth is the one of the names for the realm of Faery, where humans lose inhibitions and their sense of boundaries if they eat the food and drink, as well as the ability to return to the human world.
> 
> 3\. Sidhe are the 'fairy folk' of Ireland and Scotland - not at all like the Victorian images of fluttering, delicate creatures. They're very powerful and not to be meddled with.
> 
> 4\. My apologies to the people of Ireland for my probable mangling of your history. I have no idea what happened in the war of independence, nor what role the Anglo-Irish played. Call it artistic license.
> 
> 5\. A roc is a mythical bird which is unfeasibly large and deadly dangerous. (For more information search on Wikipedia for "roc giant bird" or read the stories of Sinbad the Sailor).


End file.
